by Marin Thomas
“I expect you don’t remember living here.”
“No, I don’t,” she said, refusing to lie. She motioned to the terra-cotta tile. “I like the floor.”
“The kitchen’s in the back.” P.T. cut through a great room with an adobe fireplace and chunky furnishings—cowboy furniture. The kitchen was large and airy. A colorful mosaic-tile backsplash in deep gold, blue and red popped against the whitewashed walls. The cabinets were a dark distressed wood—the space above them held an array of brightly painted metal roosters. A wooden chopping block served as an island. P.T. caught Rachel studying the décor. “Anne—” he cleared his throat “—your mother had a rooster fetish.”
“I like them.” Rachel wondered if the bold, colorful fowl were indicative of her mother’s personality.
“This was Anne’s favorite room in the house.”
The love in her father’s voice when he spoke of her mother pierced Rachel’s heart. Why couldn’t he offer her a smidgen of that affection? She shifted under his scrutiny.
“You look like your mother,” P.T. said.
Rachel had seen photos of Anne Lewis and agreed she was every inch her mother’s daughter. “I could use a drink.”
“Where are my manners?” Her father fetched a glass from the cupboard. “Lemonade or iced tea?”
A green-apple martini would have been better. “Iced tea.” Rachel stared out the large picture window overlooking a courtyard. Trellises covered with red bougainvilleas had been mounted against the adobe wall and mounds of pink and yellow lantana grew in several planters. She couldn’t picture the father she knew as someone who nurtured flowers. In the center of the patio sat a fountain with a bucking horse that spewed water from its mouth.
P.T. set Rachel’s tea on the bistro table then leaned a hip against the butcher block. “That’s Dust Devil.” He pointed to the fountain. “He’s the reason Five Star Ranch exists.”
“How’s that?”
“Anne caught Dust Devil being abused by a stock contractor.” P.T. stared unseeingly across the room as if reliving the moment. “Your mother gave that cowboy a piece of her mind and threatened to call the authorities on him if he didn’t hand over Dust Devil to her. Anne had a soft spot for abused animals and she convinced me that it was my duty to provide a sanctuary for retired rough stock since I made a living off them.” P.T. rubbed his chin. “Your mother was an astute woman, so I listened to her.”
P.T. had loved Rachel’s mother very much—what had happened to that man? “Was my mother happy living here?”
“Anne got lonely. There wasn’t much for her to do until you came along.” P.T.’s gaze slid away. “You were a precocious child.”
“Aunt Edith talked about Mom often, but I was too young to remember any details about her.” Rachel sipped her tea. “For some reason, though, when I smell the scent of roses I think of her.”
A pained expression crossed her father’s face. “Anne misted your bed sheets with rosewater before she tucked you in at night.” P.T. cleared his throat then changed the subject. “You like working as a school psychologist? Teenagers can be a pain in the arse.”
What did he know about teenage behaviors? He’d never visited Rachel during her high-school years. “I enjoy helping teens navigate difficult issues.”
“Sounds as if you’ve found your calling.”
Until this moment, Rachel had never expressed her appreciation to her father for paying her college tuition and graduate-school costs. She blamed her bad manners on the anger and resentment she harbored toward him. In light of P.T.’s recent cancer diagnosis, it was time to let a few things pass. “Thank you for paying off my student loans.”
“The least I could do considering…”
Considering what? Had he been on the verge of apologizing for keeping his daughter at arm’s length through the years? The air crackled with tension.
Rachel took pity on him. “Another thing I don’t remember about my childhood is the heat.”
“By the end of August even the natives have had enough of the sweltering temperatures.” P.T. shook his head. “I’m sorry you had to come out here during the hottest part of the year.”
“It’s an adventure.” One she hoped she wouldn’t regret. “What have the doctors said about your condition?”
“Stage II prostate cancer.”
“Which means?” Rachel knew nothing about prostate cancer except that stage I was better than stage II.
“The cancer hasn’t spread outside the prostate, but if I don’t get treatment soon, cancer cells could migrate to my lymph nodes.”
“What kind of treatment plan has the doctor prescribed?”
“They’re going to place a radioactive pellet in my prostate.”
Ouch. “Why don’t they take out your prostate?”
“Because of my age they believe this is the best way for now.”
Her father was fifty-six. She guessed he was still sexually active…don’t go there. “And the doctors are positive the cancer hasn’t spread?”
“They’ll do more tests once I check into the clinic in Phoenix.”
Rachel worried about P.T. having to undergo a battery of procedures even though the tests were necessary for the doctors to determine the best course of treatment. “I could stay with you in Phoenix.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she wanted to snatch them back. She hardly knew her father. Surely he wouldn’t want her involved in his personal business.
“I’ll be sitting on my duff doing nothing for weeks on end. I need you here.” He glanced at his watch. “As a matter of fact, I asked my foreman to meet with me this afternoon. Let’s head into my office and wait for him there.”
After setting her glass in the sink, Rachel trailed her father to the front of the house. They entered a room off the main foyer. Two leather chairs faced a massive desk littered with folders and loose papers. Was she expected to make heads or tails out of the mess? Before she asked the question the front door banged open.
“P.T., I can explain!” The frantic shout carried into the study.
Rachel pulled in a quick breath when she recognized the cowboy who burst into the room—the very same one whose blasted bull had dented the hood of her car.
No wonder her father had asked for her help this summer—if the ranch foreman couldn’t keep a bull behind a fence, then he had no business running Five Star Rodeos.
Chapter Three
Clint stopped on a dime in the hallway outside P.T.’s office and stared at the woman who’d terrorized Curly.
Blue. Her eyes were a transparent blue like the Arizona sky on a cloudless day. The only sign she was surprised to see him was the subtle arch of a light-brown eyebrow.
Of all the rotten luck. How had the blonde tracked down Curly’s home? She must have stopped in Stagecoach and asked questions. Shoot, every person within a hundred-mile radius of Five Star Ranch had butted heads with the bull on one occasion or another. Curly was a local legend.
“For God’s sake, Clint.” P.T. frowned. “What’s got you riled?”
Clint wanted to shout “her.” Instead, he said, “I can explain the dents in her—” sissified “—Prius.”
“You hit my daughter’s car?”
Daughter—as in the estranged Rachel P.T. rarely mentioned?
The woman whose sexy mouth he’d craved to taste a short while ago?
The woman who hadn’t bothered to visit her father once since Clint had lived at the ranch? That Rachel?
Why had she shown up now? Had she heard about her father’s cancer and felt guilty? Clint’s gut insisted he shouldn’t trust this woman. Caught up in staring at Rachel he remembered he hadn’t answered P.T.’s question. “Curly dented the hood of her car.”
“Blast it, Clint.” P.T. motioned to the empty chair in front of the desk and Clint slid onto the leather seat. “You’ve got to keep that bull locked up. One of these days he’ll roam onto the road and get someone killed.” P.T. swung his gaze to Rachel. “You weren�
�t injured, were you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Clint will see to it that your car gets fixed.”
Add auto repairs to the list of his duties this week. “I’m heading into Yuma later. I’ll stop by Mel’s place and make an appointment with the repair shop.”
“No rush,” P.T. said. “Rachel’s staying all summer.”
The bossy, no-sense-of-humor, sexy blonde was hanging around for three months?
You like her eyes.
True.
And she has great legs.
No argument there.
He wondered how long her hair was and if it was naturally blond or from a bottle.
“I plan to leave for Phoenix early in the morning,” P.T. said.
“You’ll be accompanying P.T. to Phoenix?” Clint spoke to Rachel.
“Actually—”
“I’m putting Rachel in charge of the rodeos this summer,” P.T. said.
If he hadn’t already been seated, Clint’s legs would have buckled. He clenched the armrest until the skin over his knuckles threatened to split.
“Clint manages the rough-stock sanctuary but he’s helped plenty with the rodeo-production schedule. If you have any questions, he’s your go-to man,” P.T. said.
Go-to man?
Don’t lose your cool.
Not an easy task when P.T. had ripped Clint’s guts out with his bare hands. Why had P.T. chosen his estranged daughter over Clint to manage the rodeos? Had he failed P.T. in some way and lost his trust?
P.T. was the first person in Clint’s life who’d made him feel as if he mattered as a human being. He’d worked side by side with P.T. for twenty-one years and Rachel had avoided visiting the ranch—yet, the first crisis the old man encountered, he’d turned to his daughter and not Clint.
“What do you do for a living?” Clint asked Rachel.
“I’m a high-school psychologist and athletic trainer.”
Athletic trainer explained her toned, sleek legs but what the heck did a psychologist know about producing rodeos?
“My father assured me he has everything in order and all I need to do is make a few phone calls and follow up with vendors.” Rachel’s smile didn’t reach her eyes.
The woman knew she was out of her league. What possible motivation did she have for taking on a job she was destined to fail?
Waving a leather notebook, P.T. said, “This is my rodeo bible. All the vendors’ numbers are in here—contacts, dates and events. Keep track of the bottom line. We need to turn a profit this summer.” P.T. left his chair and stood before the window. “Damned medical insurance only covers half my treatment.”
“If you need money—”
Clint and Rachel stared at each other after blurting the same words. If Rachel thought it odd that her father’s employee offered financial assistance, she didn’t say.
“I’m worried about the rough stock,” P.T. said. “The money we make off the rodeos this summer has to buy enough feed and hay to get through next year.”
P.T. rambled on about the rodeos but Clint didn’t hear a word. He sat in a stupor, unable to comprehend how his longtime mentor, friend and the man he regarded as a father had chosen his estranged daughter to assume the helm of a company that had struggled the past few years to stay in the black.
“Although we got off on the wrong foot, I believe we’ll be able to work together well.” Rachel offered Clint her hand—firm and feminine, with neatly trimmed pink-painted nails. This woman did not belong on a ranch. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, tugging her hand free. “I’ll get my luggage.”
“Clint will fetch your bags,” P.T. said.
In less than ten minutes, Clint had gone from ranch foreman to mechanic to bellhop.
“I don’t have much.” Rachel left the room, leaving a trail of perfume-scented air in her wake.
Struggling to keep his mind from wandering outside with Rachel, Clint spoke to P.T. “Haven’t I proven I’m responsible enough to handle the rodeos?”
“Of course you can handle the rodeos.”
“Then why would you ask your daughter to drive clear across the country to run a business she has no experience with?” He smoothed a hand over his close-cropped hair. “Rachel’s a school shrink. Has she ever been to a rodeo before?”
“I’m not sure. You’ll have to ask her.”
“Is it because of Lauren? You’re worried my daughter will be a distraction?”
“Not at all. Rachel’s help will allow you to spend more time with Lauren.”
“You’re putting Rachel in charge to punish me because I haven’t paid enough attention to Lauren over the years?”
“Hell, no!” P.T. banged his fist on the desk. “This isn’t about you, Clint. It’s about me. I want Rachel in charge of the rodeos. End of discussion.”
“Whatever you say, boss.”
P.T.’s head jerked as if Clint had slapped him. Add remorse to the crazy emotions running rampant inside Clint. P.T. had taken him in, given him a home and taught him to be a decent man. He deserved better from Clint.
“I’ll make sure I’m available if Rachel needs me.” Even if it killed him.
“Good. The doctors insist that if I beat this cancer and go into remission, I need to cut out the stress in my life.”
“Are you talking retirement?” A sliver of excitement pricked Clint. He’d dreamed of one day running Five Star Rodeos.
“If Rachel does a good job this summer, I intend to ask her to stay on permanently.”
Only sheer pride kept Clint from storming out of the room as his chest tightened, squeezing the air from his lungs. The hurt was like none he’d ever experienced. “Does Rachel—” he cleared his throat “—want to take over Five Star Rodeos?”
“I don’t know. But she’s my daughter. I owe her first right of refusal.”
How did P.T. believe he owed Rachel his livelihood when she’d made no effort to be involved in his life? Clint lived at the ranch, took care of the animals and had been P.T.’s right-hand man for years.
On the heels of hurt came anger—mostly at himself for believing loyalty trumped genetics. Rachel was tied to P.T. by blood, not gratitude. Even though Clint believed he deserved to run the company, he was nothing but an adult foster kid—a castoff nobody had wanted.
“Are we finished talking?” Clint asked.
P.T. frowned, but Clint refused to apologize for his curtness. Either way Clint viewed the situation, he was screwed. If Rachel failed then P.T. would assume Clint hadn’t done enough to help her. If Rachel succeeded, she’d prove she was more than capable of managing the rodeo-production company.
“What’s wrong, son?” P.T. asked.
Son? Right now Clint didn’t feel much like P.T.’s son. Without another word, Clint left the office before he made promises he couldn’t keep—like making sure nothing got in the way, including himself, of producing top-notch rodeos this summer.
AS SOON AS CLINT STEPPED outside the house, Rachel’s spine stiffened. She didn’t need a psychology degree to understand the handsome cowboy resented her presence. Why?
“Three bags?” Clint stopped next to the car and stared at the luggage.
Three suitcases was hardly a lot, considering she planned to stay the summer. “I’ll bring in the rest,” she said, referring to the tote bags containing her shoes, toiletries and miscellaneous items.
He hefted the luggage beneath his arms, the motion pulling his shirt taut against his broad shoulders. She forced her attention back to his face. “Clint.”
“What?”
“You’re angry.”
The muscle along his jaw bulged and she expected him to storm off. He stayed.
“Are you upset that P.T.’s making you handle the repairs to my car?”
His brown eyes pierced her, stealing her breath. For an instant she imagined those eyes staring down at her as he… Shocked by her train of thought, she said, “We’re going to be working together, which means we’ll need to comm
unicate.” With words, not dark looks. Frustrated, she blurted, “Say something.”
“P.T. believes you’re the best person to produce his rodeos. I’ll stay out of your way. You stay out of mine.” He marched into the house with her luggage.
Was this the same cowboy who’d rescued Curly from the road? Unless… Had Clint expected to be put in charge of her father’s business? Regardless, he didn’t have to be rude.
“What’d you do to rile my dad?”
Rachel spun then slapped her palm against her thudding heart. Where had the pink-haired girl come from?
The teen smiled. “I get that kind of reaction a lot when people first see my hair.”
“It’s very…colorful.”
Tugging a strand of shoulder-length hair, the girl said, “It’s the same color as Avril Lavigne’s, only instead of highlights I colored my hair pink all over.” She blew a bubble with her gum. “You know who Avril Lavigne is, don’t you?”
“Sure, I’ve heard of the singer.” Lots of girls in high school listened to the rock star’s music. Rachel pointed toward the house. “Clint’s your father?”
“Yeah, lucky me.” She sighed. “I’m Lauren McGraw. Who are you?”
“Rachel Lewis from Rhode Island.”
“I didn’t know P.T. had a daughter. Cool.”
Rachel’s thoughts whizzed in all directions. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen. I’ll be a senior in high school this fall.”
“I don’t recall seeing a high school when I drove through Stagecoach.”
“There isn’t one. I live in Los Angeles with my mom, but she’s in Mexico with her new husband.” Lauren blew another bubble then swallowed it whole inside her mouth. “I’m stuck here until my mom returns from her honeymoon in August.” She didn’t appear happy with the situation.
“You said you’ll be a senior this fall. Are you excited about graduating?”
“I guess. First, I have to pass two killer courses, AP biology and pre-calculus.”
The difficult classes confirmed a good brain beneath all the pink hair. Since the girl appeared willing to chat—unlike her father—Rachel said, “I work at a high school.”
